


Lost and Found

by heyitsamorette (AmoretteHD)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bottom Greg, Gyms, Light Angst, M/M, Muggle Culture, Muggle Life, Muscles, Rare Pairings, Romance, Squibs, bros, greg loses his magic, greg works out, lads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 09:50:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14054304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmoretteHD/pseuds/heyitsamorette
Summary: After the war, the Ministry decides that everyone who took the Dark Mark should be punished by being stripped of their magic. As a result, Gregory Goyle has to learn to navigate life all over again. Developing feelings for a Muggle somehow doesn't seem to help.





	Lost and Found

**Author's Note:**

  * For [synonym4life](https://archiveofourown.org/users/synonym4life/gifts).



> This is written for Synonym4Life. I hope you like this! I intended to write something much more fluffy and with much more lad culture for you, but somehow this came out instead—a bit more flangsty, but I hope still something you enjoy reading. 
> 
> I also wrote this based off the prompt "How does it feel….to lose the thing you loved the most?" for a dialogue prompt challenge, which you can find linked [here](https://heyitsamorette.tumblr.com/post/170519983531/writersblockbecomesunblocked-dialogue-writing). 
> 
> Oceaxe is the best for betaing this, thank you so much!
> 
> Headcanon note: I always imagine that in Pureblood culture, they don't use nicknames very often as they are very stiff and formal type of people. So Goyle would be Gregory rather than Greg, and Crabbe would be Vincent rather than Vince, and so on and so forth. I suppose they could use nicknames among close friends, but I just like the formality of long names in that culture, hence my use of Gregory in this fic.

“How does it feel,” said Healer Thornberry, leaning over her crossed legs and peering at him through wire frames, “to lose the thing you loved the most?” A piece of parchment and a quill hovered by her head. 

_Ready to strike_ , Gregory thought as he watched it, buoyant in midair, its graceful oscillations at odds with its true purpose. It was a plain quill; utilitarian, with a long stem and trimmed feather, and all he could see was a knife. 

“How do you think it feels?” He narrowed his eyes at the thing as it started scratching at the parchment. “I haven’t been able to sleep for days.”

“Why is that?”

“It’s too… quiet.” Inside his head, it was so quiet that it was loud. All the time. Pressing against his ears and his brain until he might just—“I play a lot of music at night. To drown out the…” He blinked hard. “Silence.”

Thornberry nodded. “A lot of the new squibs are reporting similar symptoms. The absence of magic seems to leave a sort of void. Something that is viscerally felt.”

As if bidden, the silence rose up and became a shrill whistle in his ears. He clenched his fists together, and her beady eyes darted nervously toward them. His voice was a low rumble in his suddenly tight throat. _“I’m not a squib._ ”

  


#

  


The only thing that helped was working out. Gregory discovered it by accident, strolling through the Muggle neighborhood he was now forced to call home. He discovered something called a gym, and it was a marvelous place full of marvelous things, and Gregory strolled through it with the same sense of wonder he once had at Honeydukes as a first year. After he’d been given the tour, it was the first time Gregory felt the veil of despair begin to lift. 

The Ministry might have eliminated the use of dementors, but the effects of what they’d done instead were exactly the fucking same. And no less cruel or barbaric. 

Torturing his muscles was good for him. Lifting was good for him. It was like getting high off that shit he and Crabbe had once bought in Knockturn and snorted in a dank alley. Gregory put on earbuds and played music to deafen the silence, and he just lifted. One rep. Two reps. Three… over and over and over. _Heave._ Grunt. _Exhale._ Rest. Numb the mind with repetition and enough physical exertion, and the human spirit could overcome anything. At least, that was the idea. So far, so good. 

Better than that bloody sadistic mind healer, at any rate. 

  


#

  


Another thing that improved from all the working out was sex. Or rather, wanking, since he hadn’t actually had sex with another person in over a year. But it was still—Merlin, it was so much better. Like grin-ridiculously-for-no-reason better and can-squat-onto-the-dildo-without-breaking-a-sweat better. 

Gregory had always been a bottom. It usually surprised people when they found out. Not that he went around shouting from towers: “I LIKE TO TAKE IT UP THE ARSE”, but somehow it had come up a total of three times in his life. 

The first was in sixth year when Draco had practically commanded him to, “Just fuck me, will you? I’m having the shittiest of shit days and I just need to be fucked, take the edge off.” He’d said it so casually, so entitled, as if it hadn’t crossed his mind for even a moment that Gregory might like to have some say in the matter. But then, Draco was always like that. 

Draco was a piece of work, and if Gregory had been any other type of bloke, he would probably have loved to fuck that little ponce into a desk and just tear that prissy arsehole right up. But as it was, Gregory was not the least bit interested in topping, so he refused. Draco had looked at him for a second like he hadn’t comprehended the words leaving his mouth: Draco didn’t often hear the word no, especially from Greg and Vincent. Needless to say, he hadn’t liked it.

The second time it had come up was the summer after, when Gregory had spent a month in Norway. He and his father had visited Durmstrang on assignment for the Dark Lord, and there had been a boy his age, another son of a Death Eater. The boy hadn’t taken the Mark, but he’d been fascinated by Gregory’s. He’d thought Gregory might’ve liked to push him around a bit, big bad Death Eater that he was, and then pin him down and fuck him. Gregory hadn’t. 

The third and final time it had come up was last year, at Hogwarts. Vincent had found his magazine because the corner had been peeking out from underneath Greg’s mattress. Whoops… “You actually _like_ this sort of thing?” and “I didn’t know you were a poofter,” and “I bet you’d love to fuck one of these twinks, here, yeah?” Vincent had jabbed a thick finger against the page, indicating a skinny bloke with a youthful face. Gregory’s disgust at the idea had obviously gleamed from his face, because Vincent pried and got him to admit what he really wanted. And then for one odd, quiet moment, Vincent had looked him up and down in a way he never had, almost like he’d been _considering_ it. And had he offered, Gregory didn’t know what he would have said. But he hadn’t, and they’d never talked about it again, and then a few months later, the Fiendfyre happened and they never would. 

Gregory exhaled hard as he ran on the treadmill, his feet stomping over the belt. Thinking about Vince always made him shaky all over. He never spent long on the treadmill, as he only needed small intervals of cardio with his bulk-up routine; plus he hated how the dull monotony of running in place always left him too much time to think. 

The thing was, Gregory didn’t fancy twinks. He simply wasn’t attracted to them. Didn’t like how willowy they were. Give him a large, thick bloke more like himself, now that was the ticket. That got his blood pumping properly—straight to his dick.

  


#

  


Gregory stood in front of the mirror in the area with the free-weights and did shoulder raises. He held a thirty pound dumbbell in each hand. A warm up. 

Losing weight and building muscle had chiseled out his face. He could see his jawline in the mirror now, something he’d never been able to before. The sharp line of it stood out, a muscle on the right side of his mouth clenching as he shrugged his shoulder up. His cheeks were flushing a soft pink from the exertion. 

Then he spotted him, reflected in the mirror. The Six O'clock Bloke. Named that because he showed up religiously at five past six on weekday evenings, never missing a day in all the months that Greg had been coming. As a result, Gregory had hardly missed a day, either. 

Six O’clock Bloke’s t-shirt stretched across the expanse of his chest like it was trying desperately to remain attached to its stitching. His arms weren’t as defined as Gregory’s, and his stomach held the telltale signs of a beer gut that seemed to be coming along nicely, but he was just as big as Greg, all brawn and robustness that made Greg’s insides sear with heat. 

He was hooked on this Muggle, and he should be ashamed of himself. Fantasizing about being fucked _by a Muggle_. Bent over and penetrated _by a Muggle_. He might as well disown himself from his own family, get it over with now, before his father found out. 

But of course, his father would never find out. It’s not like it was ever going to happen. Gregory’s ridiculous fantasies of dating the Six O’clock Bloke for a few months before introducing him as his boyfriend were never actually going to take place. They only existed in his brain, just for him, in those lonely midnight moments in his magic-less flat in his little boxy bedroom when the lights were out and he needed something to think about that made him feel warm. 

Six O’clock Bloke passed near him to pick out a dumbbell from the rack. Gregory tried not to look at him, staring fixedly into his own brown eyes in the mirror. 

“Hey, mate.”

Gregory jumped, nearly dropping the weights, which would have hurt like a bitch had they fallen on his feet. He stacked one onto his left elbow so that he could pull out an earbud. Six O’clock Bloke was staring him in the face. Talking to him. Calling him mate. 

“H-heyeah?” he said, like a twat, because he’d been trying to say “hey” and “yeah” at the same time. 

“You done with those, mate?”

He’d called him mate again. And he had lovely, pale blue eyes. 

“Er… these?” He indicated the dumbbells piled on one arm. 

“Yeah.” Six O’clock Bloke raised his eyebrows.

“Er… Yea—No. No, not done.” Why did he have to sound like such a dumb idiot who couldn’t make sentences? And why, come to think of it, was he being asked for his weights? Indignation asserted itself, thankfully, and provided him with the ability to speak again. “You know, it’s not on to interrupt someone when they’re in the middle of their set. I was concentrating. Now I’ve lost count, _mate._ ”

“Yeah, well it’s not on to hog the only thirties for so long, either. So are you almost done, or what?”

Six O’clock Bloke was a bit of a dick. 

Gregory faced him fully, drawing himself to his full height. He was about an inch taller than him, but Six O’clock Bloke wasn’t going to be intimidated by a mere inch, that much was evident. He didn’t look like he’d be intimidated by much at all, in fact. His smile was smug as a niffler’s in Gringotts, and he crossed his arms across his chest. 

“You can’t find any other thirties over there?” Gregory asked, surprised since there usually were two sets of each size, to prevent this exact bloody situation. Or maybe someone else had taken the others. 

“Nope.”

“Shame, that. Doesn’t matter, though, still got to wait your turn.”

“I’ve been waiting. I always wait.” Six O’clock Bloke pointed a finger at the dumbbells which were now straining Greg’s left bicep considerably. “You hoard those things every night for nearly thirty minutes.”

“It’s part of my warm up…” Gregory started to say, when he realized: “You been keeping tabs on me, or something?” 

Six O’clock Bloke had been watching him, too. His breath caught in his throat as he processed this, wondering how he could have missed it. If Six O’clock Bloke had been watching him, Gregory surely would have noticed, seeing as all he did was stare at the guy himself. 

“I just really need the thirties. And you always have them.”

Gregory’s first instinct was to tell him to fuck off; something he would have done if this were anyone else. But this was _him_ , the bloke he’d been wanking over on and off for months now. The bloke he daydreamed about, got trembling hands over. His first instinct was complete bullshit. It was born from a lifetime of being told to be strong, not weak; a man, not a pussy; to hit first, ask questions later. And Gregory was sick to the depths of his stomach of being so fucking combative all the time. 

“Here,” he said, handing the dumbbells over. Six O’clock Bloke took them, his mouth softening in a way that said he hadn’t actually expected Gregory to hand them over so easily. As he held them in his hands, looking at him, his blond hair shining golden under the gym’s harsh fluorescent lights, he looked almost disappointed. 

“Thanks,” he said cheerily, though his face was oddly droopy. 

As he turned, Gregory decided it was now or never. His heart skipped a beat as he asked, “What’s your name?”

Six O’clock Bloke looked back up. “Dudley.”

“I’m Gregory, or Greg, if you like. So what’s this routine you’re doing then, if you need the thirties so badly?”

  


#

  


They talked about working out a lot. It was the only thing they had in common, really. Gregory couldn’t exactly reveal much about himself: he was a wizard, and Dudley was a Muggle, and sharing stories of their childhoods would present some pretty obvious discrepancies in lived experience. So Gregory made sure the conversation stuck to the simple topics: what their fitness routines and goals were, what kind of food they liked, what kind of programs they watched on the telly, etc etc etc.

It turned out Dudley lived in the same neighborhood, which shouldn’t have been a surprise seeing as they went to the same gym, but for some reason it was to Gregory. He felt stupid, realizing that for months, all he’d done was fantasize about how Dudley would miraculously fit into his life, but he’d never thought about who Dudley actually was. He was his own individual, his own person, and Gregory was desperate to learn everything he could about him. 

“What do you like to do?” Gregory asked one night as they sat at Chipotle after the gym. They had started a little routine of their own every Thursday, and it left Gregory feeling tingly all over and absolutely ridiculous. It was only Chipotle, for fuck’s sake. No need to get all starry-eyed over a burrito, even if one’s crush was sitting across the tiny metal table. 

“Whaddaya mean?” Dudley asked as he took another bite. 

“Like, for fun.” He genuinely had no idea what Muggles did for fun besides go to the gym. 

After he swallowed, Dudley said, “Normal stuff.”

Gregory wished so hard he knew what normal stuff entailed. Why hadn’t he paid even a modicum of attention to anything relating to Muggles. He’d had eighteen years to learn. He should have taken that Muggle Studies class. His father’s disapproving face flashed in his mind, and a bitterness so sharp stabbed at him, he actually scowled down at his food. 

“You know,” Dudley continued. “I watch the footy matches, play video games—love Skyrim. Bit nerdy, that, but quite fun. Hang out. Watch movies.”

“I’ve never—” Gregory bit his lip. Merlin’s tits, he’d been about to say he’d never seen a movie. “I’ve never played Skyrim.”

“Really? Where the hell have you been this last century?”

Hogwarts, Diagon, Hogsmeade, in the company of Pureblooded wizards and Death Eaters who would have shot a green light at Dudley without even blinking. 

“What kind of games d’you play?”

Gregory tried to think of something plausible. What did they make games about? What exactly was a video game?

“Which console do you have?” Dudley asked. 

Console? Shit, that the fuck was a console? He was going to have to change the subject fast. “I, er, just threw mine out. Broke. But hey, I was gonna ask you, could you take me to a movie sometime?”

Dudley paused, half-eaten burrito in hand, and it was then Gregory realised how it’d come out. 

“I don’t mean take me, not like that.” He tried laughing to ease the tension, but it sounded breathy and jittery. “I just feel up for a movie. We could go together. Just… to watch it.”

Dudley’s neck was becoming pink at a rapid pace. Great, now he’d upset him. He was going to tell Greg to fuck off and storm away in an outrage. Probably shouting about how he wasn’t a poofter and, no, he wouldn’t take Gregory to a movie, like on some fucking gay date.

To his great surprise, Dudley took out his phone from his back pocket and started swiping his thumb erratically over it. “Lemme check what’s playing tonight.” He took another bite of his burrito.

Gregory’s chest settled a little, unclenching, like the Giant Squid when it uncurled a long, tentacled leg. As Dudley read off movie titles one by one, commenting on how good or how shit each one sounded, Gregory felt a rising sense of giddiness he hadn’t felt in a long time. 

  


#

  


As it turned out, going to the movies was even more fun than going to the gym. Maybe it had to do with Dudley sitting next to him, but it was also the fact that one could watch a story unfold before one’s very eyes almost as if they were there. Kind of like... magic. 

“Why do they make these places so bloody freezing?” Dudley said as he zipped up his hoodie to his chin. 

Gregory disagreed. He was burning up, especially since their knees kept knocking together. The cavernous theatre cloaked them in darkness, tricking him into thinking he and Dudley were totally alone. However, muffled chatter and the shuffling of feet and the sporadic giggles from somewhere in the void reminded him they were, actually, surrounded by people. It gave the effect of being in a private, almost invisible bubble with Dudley, one in which their fingers commingled in a box of popcorn and their legs rested casually against one another. 

The movie itself was overwhelmingly loud and vivid, and Gregory kept flinching whenever he thought a car might jump from the screen. He had no idea what the fuck half the things in the movie were and couldn’t follow most of the conversations that relied heavily on Muggle knowledge. 

He wondered how much he could ask Dudley before coming across as weird or, even worse, stupid. 

_“What’s a gun?_ ” he whispered into Dudley’s ear. He swallowed hard as Dudley’s warm, woodsy scent—his shampoo, or possibly his aftershave—hit him in the gut. 

Dudley turned to him, eyebrows drawn together and mouth twisted in confusion. Strangely, he didn’t say anything in reply. Gregory was sure as hell not going to ask again, seeing as it was obviously a bad question. Maybe everyone in the Muggle world knew what guns were. His heart started beating frantically, the start of a panic coming on. All he could do was sit in his seat, facing forward and clutching the armrests, a dead weight in his chest paralyzing him.

By the time they left the theatre, his head was spinning and he was glad for the crisp, cool night air outside. 

Dudley was quiet, which was unusual. He peered at Gregory narrowly, hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie. 

Gregory forced himself to smile. “That was great,” he said, his voice dull.

“Was it?” Dudley said, still staring at him through wary eyes. 

“Didn’t… Didn’t you think so?” His heart was in his throat, pushing against the back of his Adam’s apple. 

Dudley licked his lips, and then said slowly, “You know what I think?” A pause, a consideration, then he shook his head. “Actually, nevermind.”

He began to turn away. 

“What?” Gregory said. 

“Nothin’.”

“Tell me,” he demanded.

Dudley turned back to him, this time scowling. “Excuse you? Didn’t I just say nothin’?”

The way he squared up made Gregory react the same on instinct, simply from years of being the one who had to fight when Draco ran his mouth too far. He couldn’t see a man coming toward him like that without clenching his fists and straightening his back, ready. Dudley made him feel ready. 

“Let it go, mate,” Dudley said. 

They were chest to chest, mere millimeters from pressing together. People passing them on the street gave them a wide berth, as though sensing the beginning of a fight, the telltale crackle in the air. 

“I’m not your mate,” Gregory said, unwilling to be condescended to by that word, that fake fucking word. That word chewed him up and spit him out. 

Dudley was glaring at him, ready to say something vicious by the look of it. When he opened his mouth, Gregory realized he didn’t want to hear it—couldn’t bear to—and he did something insane instead. He shut Dudley up by pressing his own mouth against his. 

If he’d got punched, he wouldn’t have been surprised. He should have been shoved aside and cussed out. That’s what he would have expected Dudley to do. 

Instead, he felt gloriously strong hands grip his biceps and hold him in place. He heard a soft groan that vibrated against his lips. Shit, he was even feeling a pulse in his groin, the beginnings of a stiffy. His whole body, through his limbs and his stomach, was tingling with warmth. 

When they broke apart, Dudley’s eyes had lost their suspicious slant and all that was left was hazy lust. It made Greg’s heart race to see it there, so clearly. 

“Come back to mine,” Dudley said, and Gregory nodded without hesitation. 

The tube was full to the brim and they had to stand close to each other, chests pressing together as they held onto the overhead rail. Gregory spent the entire time staring at Dudley’s lips and resisting the urge to kiss them. There were too many people around, slamming into him at every shake of the train car, their voices screeching in his ear. But the truth was, anyone who looked at him and Dudley would be able to sense the intimacy between them and feel the hunger radiating from Gregory’s entire body. 

Dudley all but pushed him through the door of his flat, his mouth on him instantly. Gregory let Dudley maneuver him where he would, and found himself being wrestled onto the sofa. Dudley got on top of him, spreading his body along Gregory’s until Greg was lying flat on his back. He ran his arms all over Dudley’s torso, his biceps, and the back of his neck. Their kisses were desperate and wet, and he couldn’t tell who was emitting the grunts and moans that softly permeated the air around them but he suspected it was both of them in equal measure.

He felt the hardness of Dudley’s cock press into his thigh, and it sent a sizzling spark running through him. He rutted his hips up, wanting to feel it again, and that made Dudley grunt and break their kiss. 

The faint light from outside illuminated his eyes as he stared down at Gregory. “Have you done this before, then?”

“Er… No,” Gregory admitted, feeling himself blush. He was glad it was still a bit dark in the room and Dudley likely couldn’t see it. “Have you?”

“Only once.” Dudley licked his lips. “Do you prefer to… Which way do you…?”

“I want to bottom,” Gregory said without needing to think about it. His heart pounded with excitement; was he finally going to be able to do it? 

Dudley exhaled hard. “Damn.”

“What?”

He leaned in close to Gregory again, lips ghosting over his. “That’s fucking hot.” And then they were kissing again, even more fervently than before. 

  


#

  


Bottoming was everything he thought it would be, and also nothing that he thought it would be. He had not expected that, at first, it would feel so wrong. Like something trying to fit somewhere where nothing was ever supposed to fit, where nothing was ever meant to go into in that direction. His arse kept resisting it, his muscles clenching against Dudley’s hard cock, drawing clenched-teeth breaths from Dudley that were actually quite nice; Gregory found he liked the fact he was so tight that it made Dudley hiss. 

But with the aid of lubricant and gentle perseverance—gentler than he might have imagined Dudley could be—things began to feel rather good. 

More than good. 

Gregory groaned aloud at one particular thrust, his head falling back against Dudley’s pillow. It was a good thing they had migrated to his bedroom, because two blokes of their size could not have done this on the sofa. Not unless Dudley stood, but Gregory was glad for the added intimacy of the position they were in now. He could look up and see Dudley’s face, flushed with exertion as it was, his mouth hanging slack and strands of his golden hair falling into his eyes as he thrust his hips against Gregory’s arse. 

“You like that?” Dudley said on an exhale.

“Oh god, yes.” The words tumbled from his lips easily. 

“ _Fuuuck_ , I love a bloke who loves to take it up the arse.” 

As Dudley continued pounding him, Gregory’s world exploded with stars. Whether it was because this was his first time being fucked, or from the way he could almost imagine Dudley had said he’d loved him, he didn’t know and didn’t care. He only wanted to feel this way over and over again. Forever. 

  


#

  


They stayed in bed for a long time after, talking softly about absolutely nothing of importance. It was easier than he thought it would be. It was easy being with Dudley. The thing he appreciated most about him was how Dudley never made anything awkward. He just barrelled through awkward situations with his blunt honesty and his genuine sense of confidence. 

It occurred to him that somehow, miraculously, the sense of gloom that had been clinging to his soul was gone. For the first time, he didn’t mind that he didn’t have his magic. The sense of loss was no longer there. Being a Squib meant being one step closer to being Muggle, and that was just another step closer to Dudley. The deafening silence that followed the absence of his magic was now filled by Dudley’s booming laughter. 

Until Dudley suddenly fell silent, blinking as he stared at Gregory in the relative darkness. Gregory wondered what was wrong but he didn’t want to ask. They had been having such a good time, but something was different in the air now. It made Gregory’s stomach tighten oddly. 

“You know when we were at the movies earlier,” Dudley started, sending a sick sense of foreboding through him, “and you asked what a gun was? What was that all about?”

A ringing started in his ears as his mind spun trying to think of a way out of this, some story he could weave. What would sound plausible? Gregory swallowed and then forced a dry laugh. “Ha… Oh, you know. I was just joking.”

“Oh…” Dudley didn’t look like he believed him in the least. His eyes were much too narrowed with suspicion and his arm was tense as it hugged the covers over his naked torso. “I just had a crazy thought, is all.”

“Oh?” Hell if he knew what that meant. Did he even want to know? “What—what kind of thought?”

Dudey shook his head. “It’s nothing.” 

“Tell me.”

A grin spread over Dudley’s lips. “Excuse you,” he echoed their fight from earlier. “Didn’t I just say it’s nothing?”

Gregory playfully shoved his shoulder, and Dudley surprised him by taking hold of his hand. Gregory stopped himself from gasping even though every nerve lit up in his palm and up his arm. Any contact with Dudley did that to him, especially when he gripped Gregory’s hand in his own so firmly. 

“I don’t think you were joking,” Dudley whispered as Gregory’s heart threatened to beat out of his chest. “When you said that, I immediately thought about…” he swallowed, looking nervous for the first time since Greg met him, “... my cousin.”

Gregory frowned. “Your cousin? What’s he got to do with me?”

“I have a cousin who’s…” Dudley shook his head, biting his lip. “It sounds mad. I don’t think I can even say it out loud. It’s probably nothing to do with you anyway, it’s just the first thing that popped to mind.”

“I don’t understand.” It was so odd to listen to Dudley beat around the bush like this, and he found it unnerved him. “Just spit it out.”

“Oh, all right. You’re gonna think I’m a lunatic.”

For some reason, this made Gregory smile. “Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. You won’t know until you tell me what you’re bloody thinking.” 

“Well if I’m wrong, then you definitely will. But here goes.” With a deep breath, he continued. “I have a cousin who’s…” his whole face went red and he breathed the next word lower than a whisper, “ _a wizard.”_

Gregory’s jaw dropped. 

The room went deathly quiet. Neither of them so much as breathed. Dudley stared at him searchingly, his small eyes clearly trying to gage Gregory’s reaction. But Gregory was paralyzed and unable to move a muscle, let alone speak, his insides whirring with emotions and thoughts that didn’t make sense yet. He didn’t know what he was feeling, really. In fact, he was starting to wonder if he had even heard him right. 

Then, slowly, Dudley’s shoulders began to tremble as wheezing laughter emitted from his throat, and that snapped the string of tension in the air. Gregory started to laugh too, something releasing in him that had been painfully wound up. He was unable to stop once he’d started, his whole body shaking with it. 

They were howling. 

Dudley blinked away tears of mirth. “A wizard. I’m sorry.” He caught his breath. “I’m sorry, it’s so ridiculous. Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous? And to think I was going to ask you if you were one.”

The final round of chuckles left Gregory’s throat feeling sore. “I am,” he croaked. 

Dudley was silent again for a moment, and then all at once, he started laughing so hard that no sound came out, his mouth open in silent guffaws for long moments before he found his voice again. He was still holding onto Gregory’s hand as he bent over and wheezed, and Gregory joined him, his own eyes welling up as he laughed from deep in his gut. Tears rolled down his cheeks, first slow, and then harder and harder. 

He was sobbing. Really sobbing, his face twisted in what he could tell was an ugly, distorted grimace. He cried so hard, he was wailing. Embarrassingly so. Painfully so. He didn’t know where he was anymore. His whole life barreled before him and he saw his younger self, his parents, his friends, the professors at Hogwarts, the students, the Death Eaters. The house he grew up in that he’d never see again. The school he helped destroy. Ollivander’s shop, where he got his wand. The broom he rode. The textbooks with all the spells that he had memorized—that he had always struggled to learn because he was never good at school anyway—that were all useless now, useless useless useless. Why had he killed himself to get barely passing marks on his OWLs? What had been the point? Come to think of it, what had been the point of his whole life, if it was just going to come to this?

He hadn’t even noticed that Dudley had taken ahold of him. 

“I’m not a wizard anymore,” he hollered into Dudley’s shoulder. “I’m just… I’m nothing now.”

“That’s not true,” Dudley said, with the obvious discomfort of someone who wasn’t used to consoling others. He patted Gregory on the back.

“Yes it is,” he said, sniffling hard. “I don’t have magic anymore.”

“So?”

Gregory lifted his head to look at him. His lashes were coated with tears that blurred his vision. “What do you mean, so? It’s fucking terrible.”

Dudley shrugged. “I’ve never had magic and I’m perfectly happy.”

He spent a silent moment letting his breathing level out again. “Yeah but… you’re a Muggle.”

Dudley snorted, a smile playing on his lips. “And thank fucking god for that.”

“You mean, you wouldn’t want magic even if you could have it?”

“Fuck, no! Keep that stuff away from me, honestly.” He pulled a disgusted face.

Gregory found himself frowning. “Magic is great.”

“Ergh, no thanks. If you ask me, it’s unnecessary.”

“What!”

“And lazy.”

Gregory sputtered. He had never before heard anyone talk like this, and despite everything else, it was making his blood boil. “If I had my wand right now, I could make these lights go on in seconds.”

“So can I. By walking across the room and switching them on. Doesn’t take more than a few seconds. Like I said, lazy.”

Gregory’s mouth fell open. “I know a spell that could have lubed up my arse for you. How about that?” A fissure of heat went through him just thinking about it, and about what they had done earlier. 

Dudley’s smile turned lewd as his eyes bore into him. “Didn’t need it, did I? Besides, I liked putting my fingers in you and doing that myself.”

Gregory’s cock started to perk up again, the shameless thing. He was supposed to be angry and indignant at Dudley’s clear disregard for magic. 

“We can Apparate–er, travel—great distances with magic.”

Dudley rolled his eyes, then began counting on his fingers. “Car, train, airplane, ship.”

“We can transfigure pillows into sofas.”

“I can literally buy one from IKEA for eighty quid.”

“We can hex someone’s nostril hair to grow down to their feet.”

“Why the _fuck_ would you ever want to do that?”

“What if someone pissed you off? That would be pretty funny.”

“I can think of much more satisfying ways to deal with people who’ve pissed me off,” Dudley said, cocky as shit. “And I don’t need a wand to do it, either.”

“We’re better than you!” 

Dudley chuckled. “Yeah, why don’t you say that again next time you’re bouncing on my dick?”

“Fuck off.” Gregory’s cheeks heated. 

“In fact,” he said, throwing the covers off himself, “why don’t you think about how much better you are as you’re sucking on it?”

Gregory stared at the hardening length between Dudley’s shamelessly splayed legs, his mouth going dry even through his irritation. 

  


#

  


The quill scratched away before Gregory had even opened his mouth to say anything. It was no longer threatening. It was just a quill, an inanimate object, doing as it was bid by the woman next to it. He sat listening to its nib scrape across the parchment, and watched Healer Thornberry watching him. Her large, unblinking eyes were like an owl’s, magnified aggressively behind her glasses. 

She had asked him the same question weeks ago: _how does it feel to lose the thing you loved the most?_

“I used to love magic because I didn’t know anything else. I didn’t know you could live—really live—without it.”

“Oh?” Healer Thornberry raised her eyebrows. The quill went mad beside her head. “And you don’t love magic anymore?”

“No. At least, it’s not the thing I love the most.” He smiled, knowing he would never tell her about Dudley. Or anything else ever again, for that matter. 

He walked out of her office that day for the last time. He told her he wouldn’t be coming back. 

Perhaps he would find another Mind Healer one day; one who actually gave a fuck about him and how he was doing. In the meantime, he would take Dudley’s advice instead. He had convinced Gregory to reach out to people again. And he was right, he should stop hiding. He should talk to his mum. He should talk to his friends.

Maybe tomorrow. Tonight after the gym, he and Dudley were going to watch the footy at Dudley’s place. All his mates were coming round, too, and they were going to have drinks and Dudley was going to order food from somewhere. Dudley was teaching Gregory all about football. It was an odd sport with only one ball, and at first Gregory had been so confused about where the rest of them were. He was trying to teach Dudley about Quidditch in return, but they always ended up arguing about which one was better. 

He had lucked out with Dudley knowing about magic. Somehow, it made him adore Dudley irrationally more. It occurred to him that he had never asked Dudley which cousin of his was a wizard. Perhaps Goyle even knew him at Hogwarts. How funny would it be if he had?

**Author's Note:**

> I did my research and there is actually [a sofa](http://www.ikea.com/gb/en/products/sofas-armchairs/fabric-sofas/knopparp-2-seat-sofa-orange-art-50324276/) available at IKEA uk for eighty pounds. I like to imagine Goyle buys this nice little orange sofa for Dudley that Christmas as a homage to the beginning of their relationship.
> 
> You can talk to me on tumblr at [@heyitsamorette](https://heyitsamorette.tumblr.com)


End file.
